Living Room (28 page)

“Yes?”

“I’d give Shirley one more whack, a campaign that could work for this coming model year. If she fails, you haven’t lost a thing except an account that looks lost to you right now. If she succeeds, I’ll try like hell to sell it in Dearborn. Personally, I’d like to keep on working with you.”

“I appreciate that, Cass.”

“Pure self-interest. I can cope with you guys. Somebody like Bill Bernbach might put me down as a hick from Detroit every chance he got.”

Arthur laughed. “You’re not thinking of going with Doyle, Dane are you?”

“I wouldn’t say even if I knew.”

“Cass, I feel guilty in all this. I should have recognized some of the practical flaws in Shirley’s campaign.”

“So should I. You know, Arthur, it’s not a generation gap we’re suffering from. The kids, even the kids of Shirley’s age, are where the ideas are going to come from. Not because they’re daring. Because they’re inexperienced. We veto too many ideas in our heads because we’ve had similar things cut down. We stick to things that have worked. Or are familiar. What we need to do is bridge the experience gap, let the kids spout but govern the use by what we’ve learned in the past. I guess it’s a hopeless ideal.”

“You’re a wise man, Cass.”

“Kiss my ass, Arthur. Get to work.”

*

Arthur went around to Shirley’s office. Her door was open. The office was empty. “Twitchy, where the hell is she?”

“She said she was going to the movies.”

Arthur Crouch convened the entire clerical staff of Armon, Caiden, Crouch. Hunched over a theater guide to Manhattan, he assigned each person one movie house within a mile of the office, eliminating two because Twitchy knew that Shirley had seen those pictures recently. He was about to turn the secretaries, assistants, and mail boys loose with bills from petty cash to scour the film houses for Shirley.

Twitchy whispered something in Mr. Crouch’s ear. He blushed with embarrassment, and made an announcement to the assembled group.

“Twitchy’s got a better idea. Each of you, instead
of
going
to the theater you’ve been assigned, call the box office and say there’s an emergency call for Dr. Shirley Hartman and give the office number. It’ll be a lot quicker.”

As they dispersed to their phones, Arthur said, “Thanks Twitchy. A smart girl like Shirley deserves a smart assistant like you.”

In fourteen minutes Arthur’s extension rang.

“What the hell’s this doctor business?” said Shirley.

“I need you back here right away.”

“I’m depressed.”

“Get undepressed. We’ve got one more crack at keeping Ford.”

“Serious?”

“Cass Rodgers’ words, not mine.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Breathless Shirley flung her raincoat
off
on Arthur’s couch.

Arthur said, “Let’s get Marvin in on this.”

“Let’s not.”

Arthur outlined to her the salient point: they had to come up with a campaign that could be put in in the coming season and that did not require physically changing the automobile. “Maybe,” he said, “you could rethink the Shirley’s Car idea, drop the redesign items, come up with some new ones, make it work.”

“Arthur,” said Shirley, “when you run into a stone wall, the point to recognize is that you gotta go a different way. I don’t want to do a scissors-and-paste on a rejected idea.”

“We’re very short of time.”

Shirley asked Arthur’s secretary to see if she could get Cass Rodgers at his hotel.

“Room extension’s busy,” she reported.

“Tell the hotel operator to interrupt for an emergency.”

When Cass got on the phone, he sounded a bit annoyed.
“What’s
up?”

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Shirley. “I figured you were talking to some other agency, so it was worth interrupting.”

Cass laughed. She was glad he was the kind of man who could. “Any chance you could stay overnight instead of catching the seven o’clock?”

“Shirley, if you have in mind seducing me, I like the idea but it won’t save the account.”

“No ulterior motives. You can go see the movie that I was yanked out of. What I want is to meet you at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. Can you line up two Fords for the day, not brand new, and no dealer plates. I’ve got an idea I want to try out. I’m taking you for a ride but we’re traveling in separate cars.”

“Sounds very mysterious.”

“Can you line up two?”

“Sure.”

“Where’ll I meet you in the morning?”

“Well, I’d offer to pick you up, but I don’t know how to drive two cars.”

“Phone me and let me know which dealership and I’ll meet you there at seven-thirty. Pick a good dealer and have him test-drive the two cars this afternoon to make sure they’re in good working order.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rodgers.

“Yes, m’am, is what you meant to say.”

When she hung up, Arthur said, “What’s that all about?”

“I’ve got a whisper of an idea, but I need a few hours to think things through before tomorrow morning.”

“Can I help?”

“Arthur, can you help me think?”

“You make me feel superfluous.”

“You hired me. You couldn’t be a complete idiot. Besides, I need your help.”

“Name it.”

“Arthur, please don’t delegate this. I need someone I trust to
make twenty telephone calls. Don’t place them through your secretary. Call twenty Ford dealers outside the city, station-to- station. Work from an atlas. Be sure to spread the calls all over the country. Ask for the service department. Tell them you’re some place you find on the map to be a few miles out of town. Tell them your car won’t start. You’re on a rush trip to wherever. Name some place at least a hundred miles away so they’ll know time is important. Tell them it’s not the battery, you think it’s the starter. Write down what they say and then hang up. See what kind of pattern you get. If you can finish by noon tomorrow, it’ll help. You could start with California right now, because of the time difference, do the East and Midwest in the morning.”

“Shirley, is this a way to go about developing an ad campaign?”

“I hope so.”

“Please tell me what you’re aiming for.”

“There isn’t time. Trust me.”

She left Arthur feeling like a blindfolded man walking down the middle of a road during rush hour.

*

At home, Shirley took a fifteen-minute nap, then washed her lace, brushed her teeth, downed a tall glass of orange juice, and took a lined yellow pad to the living room. She had to work fast.

Instead, she thought of being trapped in the elevator with Al.
W
hat if they hadn’t been freed for twenty-four hours, would they have fought, or found an accommodation? No bathroom facilities, no privacy, no room to rest or sleep, they would have fought. Was that what put Al off, the threat of an irreversible involvement, or was it…her?

They had arrived together at the party. They had left separately.

They were not a couple.

The clock caught her eye. Too many minutes had gone by since she had sat down with the still-empty pad.

Well, you could call up the bastard and put it to him directly:
Are you interested in me?

Can’t do that.

Call up and say,
I am interested in you.
And put him under a sense of obligation? Relationships are voluntary.

Her relationship with Philip Hartman had not been voluntary to start with. It was now. Was there a lesson in that?

You’re supposed to be thinking about the goddamn campaign! She sharpened her pencil with a knife in the kitchen. Doodling cars, for Pete’s sake! Meeting Cass for one last chance in the early morning.

Sometime during the evening the phone rang. She could not break her racing thoughts.

It could be Al.

It could be Cass calling the whole thing off.

It could be a wrong number. She steeled herself, let it ring until the caller gave up.

At two a.m., her eyes shutting as she wrote, her third cup of coffee drained, she felt tired beyond belief. She was almost finished. If she pushed ahead, she’d botch the rest of it. Having already switched to pajamas an hour earlier, she climbed into bed and set the alarm for five a.m. She’d finish in the morning.

Like a child, she put her arms around the second pillow. Better not think of Al. Better sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SHIRLEY AND CASS met at a dealer’s on the east side of Manhattan, where two used ’71 Fords were waiting for them, one bright red, one metallic blue.

Her palm hid the center of her yawn from Cass’s view. “On mornings like this, I wish Henry Ford had invented tinkertoys instead of cars. Did you call me at around eight last night?”

“Nope. Did you want me to?”

She shook her head.

“Hey, sleepy, you sure you’re up to driving a car this morning?”

“I’ll take the pizzazz red,” said Shirley, “you take the blue.”

“Where do we start and what do we do?”

“I’d like to get to a South Bronx dealership as soon as possible after the service department opens up. You sure these two”—she pointed to the cars—“are in perfect shape?”

“That’s what the man said.”

“I hope you know what to do to take a car out of tune. I brought this.”

She unrolled a leather pouch that contained a miniature stainless-steel tool set she had for fixing things around the house.

Cass removed the screwdriver. “This’ll take the car out of tune in three seconds.”

“Not now. When we get to the place in the Bronx, I’ll head right into the service department. You take your car out of tune and follow me in. Try to watch what happens to me when I get there.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“If I don’t, I’ll buy you a Chevy for Christmas out of my termination pay.”

“Go to hell.”

*

It was just eight when they arrived at Brodsky’s Ford. Shirley honked her horn in front of the service-department door and it lifted. She drove in, turned the ignition off, and stood beside the car. The service manager was at his desk, sipping coffee from a paper cup and chatting with one of the mechanics. Both men noticed her, but went on talking.

Outside a car horn honked. The service manager reached up to push the button which opened the automatic door. Cass drove in. She could hear the irregular throb of his engine.

“Excuse me,” she said to the service manager.

He held up a finger, meaning wait a minute, and went on sipping his coffee and talking to the mechanic. She thought he might be giving the man instructions, but then the repairman laughed out loud. He was telling him a joke.

“Now then,” said the service manager, “what can we do for you, lady?”

“There’s something wrong with my car,” said Shirley.

“Like what?”

“Well, it acts funny when I drive.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Well, I think—”

The service manager had walked away in the middle of her sentence to where Cass was standing. “Yes, sir,” he said to Cass. “What can I do for you?”

“Engine’s missing,” said Cass.

“Not completely, I hope,” said the service manager. A joker.

“Excuse me,” said Shirley. “I was here first.”

“Lady, this man may have to get to work.”

“What makes you think I don’t have to get to work?”

“I got women in here all day long. They got lots of time.”

“I really am in a hurry.”

“Then be specific. I don’t have time to give your car a road test.”

The service manager looked at Cass.

“Go on,” said Cass. “I’ll wait.”

“Well,” said Shirley, “there’s a funny sound when I brake.”

“Linings worn?”

“It’s a friend’s car. I wouldn’t know.”

“The most expensive part of the job is taking the wheel off and checking. You’ve got front-disc brakes.”

“I do?” said Shirley wide-eyed.

“It’s a half-day job and I’m full up till next Tuesday.” He looked inside the red car at the odometer. “Could be the linings,” he said, “or a bent caliper. There’s a place on Aldrich Avenue that might be able to help you. They usually have some down time.”

“Is it a Ford place?”

“They do all makes.”

“But will they have the parts?”

“They can get them.” Addressing Cass, he said, “Want to back yours down a bit so she can get out?”

As Shirley backed the red car out onto the street, she thought how typical the service manager’s assumption was: a woman, by definition, could wait.